


isolation

by hehebeanie



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29564949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hehebeanie/pseuds/hehebeanie
Summary: i need to get my feelings about quarantine somewhere





	isolation

a time to myself

nothing but my airy breaths, too contained to even matter anymore, laying in the same spot on the bed, opening the same laptop—playing the same songs, listening to the same words uttered by those around me

a household i have practically memorized; if i tried, there is the potential i could sketch it out just from my own memory—nothing but terrorizing classes breaking me farther than it normally has, nothing but silent walls and floors that have met my presence day to day

i live in the day, praying for the list of work to lower, praying that i could pass through it with a sliver of luck.

my bed has not been made—my eyes still forced to wake at an early six, despite my lovely rare breaks. my eyes heavy from the desperate seconds of happiness i sucked through the night.

my loneliness at the dark morning, no one around me but myself to talk to in the morning. to play a song once again, to sing to myself—because no one else is around. because all i can hear is my own breathing.

my afternoons full of regret, eating to forget—eating to do something, aggressively trying to rid the food with rushed movements to the music.

entertainment served to me on a gold tray is temporary—purple, red, black, blue—the heavy target of my workload shooting me straight in the head—nothing but my silent slavery in this free prison.

my eyes so broken down i could not see my hands anymore; nothing but big blurs by my side, reflecting this indescribable isolation. i tell myself, “one day i will die blind.” 

a solemn, low, silent, heavy mood is my greeting. the occasional sleep, to my own dismissed mind. as if the weight of nothingness has reigned my mind, my soul had nothing to lean onto anymore.

“i am struggling more than you, you just sit there and do sch—“

a tale that i am told when i sleep. a tale i am told when i am awake. words that belittle my own life, placing a firm duct tape, my silence prominent. a tale i do not deny, yet a tale i wish to not hear again.

belittleness, distance. my distance grows the more i live in this same household. the supposed god who has grasped the hand of this world wanted us to bond, but my silence grows louder, my care reduces to nothing but fake scoffs and weak laughter.

i do not wish to rid myself from this world, yet i wish to end this isolation. i wish to be able to hold someone close, i wish to see those who make my days better, i wish to do something more than just repeat a routine i live through.

a phenomenon that is in some television show: the constant repeating of a day, where you wake to see nothing but the same news, the same dialogue your mother and father speak, nothing but the horror of repetition.

isolation.

i wish to break free from it—i wish to wake at seven. i wish to laugh until my stomach gives in. i wish to eat and drink with those who i miss. i wish to find someone to gush over and ridiculously tease once more. i wish to—

silence. 

you determine nothing, you live a life under a roof, the devices ‘round you are your source of entertainment, you are fed, bred, and healthy. do what you must, but shut your desires.

and so i did. 

when will this charade end, my god? you are a wonderful writer, my god, but you are killing us all. there is no need to take the granted that we are happy because it is not a constricted prison, because nevertheless, the bottom of all lines, the undeniable truth—

this is a prison. 

no jail walls to see, no stone walls haunting us, no chains that heavy our feet and hands. we see it too, my god. we see the open windows, the relaxing comfort of our sleeping quarters, the warm food on our plates, too.

please, please let it end—tell me my god, tell me it will end. i have stopped to protest about the gashes this isolation leaves me in, i have belittled my priorities and—undeniably—myself, in exchange of my fragile sanity. 

you did it,  
you won.

you have created a free prison. one where i have embraced my worst traits, one where i’ve lost my closed fist, my motivation, the spark i had i had when i was a toddler—all i love has been stripped from this slow and continuous, this painful and tedious, this horrid prison that looks like nothing but a wonderful meadow to dance in—

water must be your favorite part of this world, my god. well, i would assume so. it silently drifts its mind around, never etching a word of pain of its doomful and repetitive life. its birth you smiled at, already silently beginning to fall from the sky. rain falls from the sky, thousands of feet from the air—but it never calls out in pain. our tears fall to our hands, but we scream in pain. 

much irony you bring, my creator. 

i am speaking to an entity in my head. me, a simple human being, i have gone crazy. nevertheless, i hand you my King. it has been a time.


End file.
